He had long since decided that Abigail Darlington would be his bride. He had little use for sentiment—but she would be an invaluable possession for the advancement of his interests, and her family name offered enviable social stability and fortune. Her father’s connection to the tea trade remained of particular interest to him, as did her reputation for modesty and distinction.
And now, he possessed the means to corner her into accepting his suit. All he needed was the right moment, the right manipulation of public perception, and perhaps a subtle suggestion of impropriety. After all, society rarely required facts to form its judgments.
He allowed himself a slow, pleased breath, folding his newspaper with quiet precision. The weight of this revelation was delicious, heavy with potential. He rose from his chair with the same cool nonchalance with which he had entered, abandoning his untouched drink, pausing only to sweep a hand over his coat front as if brushing off the final specks of dust from a long day’s scheming.
The corridor beyond the reading room stretched long and dim, the sconces flickering at intervals like cautious confidants. He walked slowly, thoughtfully, each footstep measured as he plotted, his mind whirring with calculation.
He could, of course, announce the truth at once—drop it like a stone into the glittering pool of society and watch the ripples spread. But no, that would not do. It would be too sudden, too transparent, and perhaps worst of all, it would make him appear vindictive.
And Edward Colton would not be thought petty. No, he would be strategic. Cunning. Precise.
He would begin by pressing himself further into Abigail’s company, cloaked in courtesy, armed with plausible innocence. He would be the picture of concern—gentle, and admiring, yet persistent in his attentions. And should she rebuff him again, he would appear wounded, but never angered. A man of feeling.
She would not realise until it was too late that every kind word was a noose, every gesture of gallantry another knot in the trap he was laying.
But the big revelation—the true satisfaction—would come in stages.
He would first turn public sentiment. Begin with idle conversation among matrons of leisure, and men of idle wit. A murmured observation about how sudden the courtship seemed. How odd that neither Arthur nor Abigail had ever shown much interest in one another before. He might even allow someone else to wonder aloud whether it was not all a little… staged.
And then, when those whispers had begun to take root, he would water them with care. A mis-delivered letter. A conversation, carelessly overheard. A knowing glance passed to the right lady at the right musicale. And then, at the moment of greatest delicacy, he would take his pièce de résistance to Harriet Darlington herself.
She, he knew, was ever hungry for prestige and propriety and would be enchanted by his attentions as she always had been. But, what would she do if she discovered her daughter’s reputation could be teetering on the brink of ruin? If she believed a man like Arthur Beaumont had trifled with Abigail’s future for the sake of convenience? To what might she agree to preserve her daughter’s standing?
The answer was clear.
A respectable offer. From a man of title, wealth, and evident interest. He had no doubt he could sway Harriet without the threat of a scandal. She had been more than willing to entertain him in the hopes that her daughter would be betrothed to him before the Season was out, but Abigail was proving harder to convince, and now he had exactly what he needed to make her see sense.
He could already imagine it. Harriet fluttering, and frantic, clutching pearls and protocol while Abigail sat, pale and furious, realizing just how thoroughly the game had turned against her. And he would smile.
He would smile, and offer himself with solemn gravity, as if he were honoring her by bestowing upon her the most precious gift rather than sealing her into a prison of his own design.
Oh, yes. He would have her. Not for love—he was far beyond such illusions—but for power. For satisfaction. For revenge.
Emerging into the foggy chill of the London street, he paused beneath a flickering lamp and turned his face upward. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and damp stone, a scent he found oddly invigorating.
The night was silent save for the distant rattle of carriage wheels and the echo of boot heels on cobbled alleys. He lingered a moment, one gloved hand resting against the iron railing that bordered the club’s steps, and allowed the full shape of his plan to settle like a mantle across his shoulders.
Arthur Beaumont thought he could manipulate society, and play the courtship game by his own rules. And Abigail Darlington, with her pride and her wit, thought herself clever enough to outpace the system.
But neither of them had factored in Lord Colton.
Neither of them had realised that the man they had dismissed—the suitor refused, the guest overlooked—was watching.
Plotting. Outsmarting them. And ready to strike.
With one final glance at the darkened club behind him, he turned and disappeared into the night, already composing the first line of gossip that would begin the unraveling.
Let the facade continue and the games commence.
He would be waiting for the moment it cracked and he was almost bursting with joy at the prospect.
For once, Edward Colton had the upper hand.
And he intended to make it count.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunlight spilled generously through the tall sash windows of Abigail Darlington’s dressing room, casting long golden beams across the polished floorboards and gilded mirrors. A delicate scent of lavender permeated the air from sachets tucked into linen drawers, and beneath the filtered morning light, the room looked like a page from one of her novels—graceful, orderly, and deceptively tranquil.
